


dare me

by dreamcatchme



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Drunk Sex, M/M, Rough Sex, Strip Tease, Truth or Dare, basically porn with a bit of plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 06:44:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/897085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamcatchme/pseuds/dreamcatchme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Grantaire attempts to alter Enjolras’ perception of the world with a game of truth or dare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dare me

**Author's Note:**

> \- if you stick with this for all 5000 words then seriously well done, four for you, it's looooooong
> 
> \- literally no idea what universe/time frame this is, potentially canonverse, potentially modern au, not sure, but it can be read with whichever you prefer, lovely readers :)

At the start of the night, Grantaire admits he wasn’t being completely serious. But as he knows far too well, the realms of sarcasm, irony and humour don’t exist when Enjolras is around.

 

It’s about 10:30pm and, as always, the Café Musain is a hive of activity by the time Enjolras’ has finished whipping the usual upstairs crowd into a verbal frenzy, but tonight there’s something funny about his facial expression, about the way he frowns and cocks his head as he puts down his tricolour flag and stares off into space, and Grantaire can’t help but be a little concerned. When he visibly sighs and heads to the bar to grab a bottle, Grantaire’s mouth falls open in surprise and he knows there’s a problem.

 

“Hey you,” he says, catching Enjolras’ wrist as he goes to walk past him. Grantaire’s back is to the bar but he’s close to it, as usual, so when Enjolras turns he leans against it, his magnificent head tilted to one side, and he a forced smile seems to drift onto his tired face. He doesn’t say anything, so Grantaire swivels around in his chair and drops his hand, trailing it along the line of Enjolras’ until their fingers are laced together. They’re in the midst of all their friends so it’s subtle but sweet, and Grantaire feels Enjolras’ fingers relax within his own and his hands are warm and soft and familiar and _fuck_ , in Grantaire’s opinion hand-holding is so underrated and they need to start doing it more or potentially never stop from this moment onwards. “Usually you’re the one trying to make _me_ talk at these meetings, not the other way around,” he observes, and Enjolras quirks an eyebrow. He stares down at Grantaire, his eyes searching his face almost sadly, then he groans and pulls a frustrated hand through his blonde curls. He so rarely gets like this that Grantaire doesn’t really know what to say, so instead he keeps hold of Enjolras’ hand and draws patterns into the side of it with his thumb in what he hopes is a comforting way.

 

A second later Enjolras sighs. “I’m not really feeling very sociable.”

_Oh_. Grantaire frowns, slightly taken aback by this, and makes a real conscious effort to not let the hurt he feels creep onto his face. But clearly he fails, because the next thing he knows Enjolras is sitting on the wooden floor, pushing Grantaire’s knees apart and settling himself between them like an adorable little kid. He leans his golden head back into Grantaire’s lap and gives him a genuine smile, however small, from upside down. “And by that,” he clarifies, biting his lip, and Grantaire has to take a deep breath because for a second he’s nothing but fucking _jealous_ of Enjolras’ pearly perfect teeth. “...I mean I’m tired of talking to everybody else, and not you. If anything I definitely haven’t seen enough of _you_ this evening.” Enjolras smirks.

 

Grantaire chokes back a laugh at Enjolras’ tone which is suddenly so playful and bizarre and so un-Enjolras, then he has to ask because the curiosity is killing him, “Are you drunk?”

 

“Not nearly as drunk as I’d like to be,” says Enjolras without a hint of irony in his voice, and Grantaire smiles.

 

“Is that a challenge?” he asks, and Enjolras nods, smiling still from upside down, all teeth and cheekbones and dimples and Grantaire can’t help but grin back at him.

 

Nobody else would condone this kind of behaviour, but Grantaire is Grantaire and therefore this side of Enjolras is one that he’d personally enjoy seeing a whole lot more of. Enjolras is the fearless leader of the group, the hero, the courageous chief and the commander that will one day direct them into battle, and that’s just fine; that’s Enjolras, and Grantaire will never criticise him for that. But he’d be lying if he said he doesn’t find Enjolras’ staunch dedication terrifying at times, his unwavering passion overwhelming, and its times like these that remind Grantaire of a younger Enjolras, one with a face free from worried creases, a smile like that of Raphael’s cherubs and a laugh like the pealing of bells. Enjolras is like a crate of dynamite that burns slowly and steadily, but very occasionally, for several hours at a time, the oxygen that keeps the spark alight dwindles, smothered by wine, usually, and his shoulders slump, his posture mirroring that of a deflating balloon. But in those hours his troubles are lifted from him, and that’s the part that Grantaire likes – he’d love to be able to remove Enjolras’ worries every day, but he knows in his heart that he’ll never be able to, at least not until the people of France are free from every chain that binds them both physically and metaphorically. He’s promised to them until that day comes, and Grantaire can live with that because he knows that even so a part of Enjolras is still _his_ , no matter what.

 

After a moment, the warm body between Grantaire’s knees suddenly moves away, leaving him feeling incomplete and cold to the bone. Enjolras is on his feet and gazing down at him, smirk firmly back on his face. “I’m going to go be unsociable upstairs,” he tells him, pointing his index finger toward the ceiling. Grantaire nods slowly, picking his bottle up from the floor and sipping from it.

 

“Okay,” he says, feeling somewhat deflated himself now. He’s confused more than anything – why does _this_ Enjolras have to be so fucking bipolar? He sits back in his chair and his eyes become acquainted with the floor again.

 

Enjolras raises his eyebrows. “Grantaire.” Grantaire’s head snaps up to look at him instantly because, to be honest, he can’t refuse Enjolras anything, no matter how taxing or ridiculous. “That was an invitation.”

 

“But you said you were going to unsociable,” Grantaire reminds him, already clambering to his feet and fighting a smile.

 

“Well,” says Enjolras, and then Grantaire feels his fingers, warm and light and teasing, come to rest at his hip fleetingly before they’re gone again. “Let’s go and be unsociable together.”

 

“I think that’s a slight contradiction in terms,” Grantaire starts to say, but his voice trails off because frankly he doesn’t care, all that matters is that he follows Enjolras up the stairs to his apartment and does whatever the fuck Enjolras wants because that’s how they work. Grantaire obeys no matter what, and it’s always paid off in the past. They linger in the doorway for a moment as a couple of students enter the room then they head up the stairs without a second glance, Enjolras reaching his hand back and searching for Grantaire’s, which he gives him willingly, as they climb.

 

When they enter Enjolras’ top-floor apartment that’s about the size of a postage stamp, the blonde smiles and reaches for two tiny glasses on top of the cabinet in the corner. Grantaire plants himself on the floor with his back against Enjolras’ bed and watches as Enjolras lights a few candles that are dotted around on surfaces and sits down opposite him, the glasses in one hand and a suspiciously unlabelled bottle of green liquid he’s procured from God only knows where in the other. Grantaire swallows. Enjolras isn’t a big drinker, and Grantaire isn’t sure how his body will handle serious, hard liqueur like _absinthe_. Hell, Grantaire’s interested to learn where Enjolras even found the contraband – it’s easy when you know where to look but this is Enjolras, for God’s sake - but he feels like now isn’t the time to ask.

 

“When did you turn all bohemian?” Grantaire asks, eyes fixed on the bottle that Enjolras is uncapping slowly, deliberately and with a smile on his face. Without answering, Enjolras pours out small measures of absinthe into both glasses on the floor in front of him then nudges one toward Grantaire with his knuckles. His cheeks are flushed and his hair flops boyishly over one eye before he pushes it back and raises his own glass to his lips. This can only end badly. Grantaire feels himself wince. “Enjolras, are you sure - ”

 

But before he can finish Enjolras has drained the glass in his hand and his head has rolled back on his neck and he’s staring up at the ceiling, unseeing as his eyes are squeezed shut – he inhales sharply and Grantaire rolls his eyes.

 

“Don’t you want to get me drunk, Grantaire?” Enjolras asks without opening his own, biting his lip in an attempt to stifle either amusement or the urge to throw up. Grantaire’s eyes follow the line of Enjolras’ neck, every dip, every ridge, every flat plane that disappears tauntingly under the loose collar of his shirt, and he feels his mouth grow dry the way it always does when Enjolras is around. So Grantaire picks up his glass and takes a sip, more tentatively than ever, and leans back again, hoping that he looks relaxed and not like he’s internally freaking out. Because, as always in the world of Grantaire, that is exactly what’s happening.

 

Three shots later, Enjolras is getting antsy and is up off the floor, pacing the room and stepping over Grantaire’s outstretched legs with each circuit. Grantaire’s head is swimming pleasantly at this point, and there’s a buzzing in his ears that he can’t quite put his finger on the source of but actually doesn’t care that much about as they chat inanely about their friends and the meeting that they just abandoned which, according to an increasingly drunk and excitable Enjolras, was the most boring he had ever experienced, and about how Enjolras’ hair is closer to yellow than white on the blonde spectrum and about the changing colour of the sky outside as the evening grows older and everything in between. Grantaire laughs at this, laughs at the way Enjolras’ syllables have started to blur together and the way his persona just _changes_ away from the intrusive, judgmental glare of the Musain’s patrons who care too much and not enough at the same time. He sits up and grabs Enjolras’ shins in a chokehold, sending him crashing to the floor in a giggling, swearing heap and laughing the whole time himself until Enjolras retaliates, launching himself across the floor at Grantaire and rolling over him.

 

Without thinking, Grantaire tilts his head back and swallows. “I’m not sure I’m drunk enough to put up with your shit yet,” he laughs, and Enjolras leans in, nose flush against Grantaire’s jaw, his breath coming hot and fast against his skin.

 

Three and a half seconds pass in which their tableau remains frozen. “Okay,” he murmurs before sitting back up and resuming his place opposite Grantaire on the floor on the other side of the bottle, his cheeks flushed, eyes alight. He pours them fresh measures of absinthe and settles himself back against the wall. “Let’s play a game.”

 

Grantaire raises his eyebrows. “Hm. Like what?”

 

“I don’t know,” drawls Enjolras, somehow gracefully wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead and sipping his drink. “Entertain me.”

 

“I’m not your babysitter,” Grantaire tells him, his voice laced with faux scorn, and all Enjolras does is laugh, the rumbling, chortling sound he only makes when he is _properly_ laughing. “What? I’m serious,” Grantaire adds with a smile. Enjolras’ eyes widen and he bites his lip in what he clearly – _correctly_ – imagines is a sexy and seductive way, and Grantaire can’t help but stare at that mouth, those pearly teeth, that Cupid’s bow, perfectly formed, those lips that Grantaire wants nothing more than to feel graze his skin. With his mind’s eye he watches Enjolras ravish him with his mouth, worship Grantaire’s body with his tongue and _those lips_ ,and in his head he hears himself cry out with need. As the essentially selfish creature that he is, it takes only a few more seconds of these mental images to inspire Grantaire’s next words. “Come on then, if you’re sure...” Grantaire sits up straight and faces Enjolras, leaning closer to the invisible boundary that’s formed between them and steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “Truth or dare?” he asks, and Enjolras snorts.

 

“Seriously, Grantaire? How old are we?”

 

“Hey, you said you wanted to play a game,” Grantaire laughs, cocking his head and knocking back the rest of his drink, holding on to the burning sensation it provides and using it as a grounding device as he stares into the constellations that swirl and gleam in Enjolras’ eyes. “If you don’t want to play, then...” He shrugs, aloof.

 

“No. I want to play.”

_Checkmate_ , thinks Grantaire. He grins. He knows Enjolras far too well. Introduce competition, make him feel inferior, and the petulant, volatile, impulsive blonde can’t say no to save his life. It’s on the infinite list of things that attracted Grantaire to Enjolras in the first place – his tenacity, his strength of mind. Some people call it stubbornness, but Grantaire covets it in Enjolras. As with all things, Enjolras has the startling ability to twist it until it’s beautiful. “Good,” he says, the corners of his lips turning up, the alcohol warming his veins and clouding his mind satisfyingly. “So choose. Truth or dare?”

 

Enjolras thinks for a moment, sipping his absinthe, then decides, “Truth.”

 

“Booooooooring,” says Grantaire with a wink, and Enjolras stretches his legs out languorously, kicking Grantaire in the shin accidentally-on-purpose and glaring at him and _oh my fucking God_ he is the sexiest thing on two legs. His fantasy from earlier flashes through his mind once more, and Grantaire already knows the direction in which he wants to take this game. But he doesn’t want to freak Enjolras out, so he starts off easy: “Favourite colour, go.”

 

“Oh, and _I’m_ the boring one.” The sentence is a little bit slurred, and its fine because both of them are drunk now, so neither can be blamed for happens tonight. Grantaire loves to have a get-out clause, and alcohol is one of his favourites.

 

“I’m lowering you in gently,” Grantaire explains, going to pour another drink but Enjolras’ next words stop him dead in his tracks.

 

“What if I don’t want to be gentle?” he says, his voice low, and Grantaire temporarily forgets how to breathe. He’s said it before and he’ll say it again; Enjolras needs to give a warning – some kind of hand signal, maybe – when he’s planning on saying ridiculous, inappropriate, _hot_ things like that. Grantaire makes a mental note to discuss this with him at a later date. Enjolras smirks, having clearly achieved his desired effect, and sits back again. “Okay. Red. Your turn. Truth or dare?”

 

“Truth, again.”

 

“Hmm,” Enjolras mutters, casting around the loft for inspiration. And straight away Grantaire knows that Enjolras has in mind exactly the same as him – his facial expression betrays his attempts at evasiveness immediately, his cheeks flush, his eyes clouded with lust and liqueur. “What do you find most attractive in a potential partner? And I’m talking physically.”

_Definitely not gentle_. “Whoa, you are drunk,” he says with a curious smile, amused by Enjolras’ boldness in relation to a subject that usually made him coy and frustrated and retreat into his shell. Enjolras merely grins at him, not denying it at all, and Grantaire has to think long and hard about what to say that conveys complete truth while avoiding creepiness at all costs. What he wants to say is _you, Enjolras, you,_ but he’s sure that would involve entering new realms of creepiness, so his mental filter kicks into gear and he edits this response slightly. “I like curly hair,” he tells Enjolras one-hundred-percent honestly. “But it has to be a specific length, not too short and not too long. Long enough to...” He shrugs, weighing words on his tongue before he unleashes them and measuring Enjolras’ reaction, his curiosity, his keen, undivided interest. “You know, long enough to tangle your fingers in and hold on to so that you can pull them closer. Is that enough information for you?”

 

Enjolras swallows, consciously or unconsciously, Grantaire isn’t sure, pulling a hand through his blonde ringlets, and Grantaire is pretty sure he must be imagining the dilation of his pupils, dark and round. “Yes. That... answers my question.” No one else can master that stare, the Enjolras stare, the stare that bores into Grantaire’s soul with such devotion and ardour that it makes him feel like some sort of magnum opus in a gilded frame, displayed and worshipped and completely _wanted_. He feels the challenge to one-up Enjolras’ question rise in his chest, and when he asks whether Enjolras would like truth or dare, he actually finds himself hoping he’ll opt for the former.

 

But Enjolras is never predictable. “Dare,” he chooses, staring questioningly at Grantaire, and now Grantaire is disappointed. He wants to put Enjolras on the spot, but how can he do that with a dare? “And don’t be a dick,” Enjolras adds, reading Grantaire’s mind like always, lip quirked, eyes gleaming.

 

Grantaire loves nothing more than being a dick to Enjolras – well, other than maybe Enjolras himself – so he grins sadistically and kneels up as he reveals his weapon. “I dare you to strip,” he says, and most uncharacteristically feels himself blush like a teenager as the words leave his mouth. _Shit_. Bad idea. Enjolras’ face says it all.

 

“Seriously?” he asks, and the devil on Grantaire’s shoulder forces him to nod. “You’re a dick,” Enjolras reaffirms, but he’s standing up as he says it, stumbling slightly over his own feet and looking to be in a state of immense surprise at his own limbs, and Grantaire can’t actually believe that this is fucking happening. “Try not to enjoy this too much, okay?” Enjolras’ voice is as acidic as he can force it to be, but his expression lightens as he straightens up, stares Grantaire straight in the eye and shrugs out of his maroon jacket, gold buttons glinting in the candlelight. Grantaire swallows and leans back on his elbows as the jacket falls to the floor, then Enjolras’ hands move to the collar of his white shirt, fingers deftly manipulating buttons, slowly, deliberately, his eyes measuring Grantaire’s reactions the entire time. His body is lean and graceful but lithe and strong all at once, all angles and intricate curvature, and Grantaire’s gaze rakes over his chest as the shirt is lost too, eyes tracing the outlines of toned abdominal muscles, hands itching to follow suit. ‘V’ shaped lines disappear beneath his jeans, and Grantaire’s dying to see where they lead.

 

There’s a small, knowing smile on Enjolras’ face – not that Grantaire is paying much attention to his face right now if he’s being completely honest – and it’s obvious he’s loving this, loving the effect he’s able to have on Grantaire without even trying. “When you said ‘strip’,” Enjolras asks, and Grantaire has to tear his eyes away from Enjolras’ hand which is now slowly, maddeningly, dragging down the zipper of his jeans. “To what extent did you mean?”

 

“Er.” Grantaire starts to speak but the sound catches in his now bone-dry throat, so he swallows hard and tries again. “Underwear is fine.”

 

Enjolras nods, then returns his attention to the task at hand – he pushes the waistband of his jeans down past his skinny hips, where the bones are clear and defined and Grantaire can mentally picture himself biting and bruising and _marking_ Enjolras right there for the world to see, then he does a little jump and shakes them quickly from side to side, causing the jeans to slide down his legs and honest to God it is the cutest and sexiest and most adorable thing Grantaire has seen and he’s never been more turned on in his entire life. Enjolras kicks off his shoes and Grantaire finds himself doing the same thing, mirroring the action, then the jeans hit the floor and Enjolras sits back down, shaking them off from around his ankle.

 

“I can’t believe you did that,” says Grantaire, completely honestly, drinking in the daggers in Enjolras’ glare. Enjolras kicks him, and Grantaire holds up his hands, head reeling from the alcohol. “I didn’t say I was complaining!”

 

A second passes. Two. Ten. Then Enjolras chuckles. “You should take a picture, Grantaire, it’ll last longer.”

 

“Mmm.” Grantaire laughs. He laughs at his wit, then at Enjolras’ facial expression, then at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation – Enjolras is sitting almost completely naked in front of him like some sort of drunken, bedraggled Greek god, and Grantaire can barely string words together to form coherent sentences. Luckily, he’s saved from at least that embarrassment.

 

Enjolras folds his arms across his bare chest. “Truth or dare?”

 

Grantaire considers this for a moment. He knows Enjolras will have something dirty up his sleeve and he’ll show Grantaire no mercy after that last round. A part of him, though, a gentler, less cynical part of psyche, recognises that Enjolras is unhappy with this arrangement, knows the blossom of red across his cheeks is about more than just the warm air in the room. They’re soul mates, and Enjolras to Grantaire is an open book written in 72-point font. How one so flawless can experience self-consciousness, Grantaire will never understand, but for now all he wants is to alleviate some of Enjolras’ anxiety, and if by making himself look like a right royal twat is the only way to achieve that, then Grantaire is ready and willing.

 

“Dare,” he groans, and Enjolras grins.

 

“Hmm,” Enjolras wonders aloud, taking a long drink of absinthe, rubbing his chin theatrically and tossing a loose golden curl back behind his ear. He hesitates for a moment, like a child mentally weighing up the pros and cons of pushing their sibling down a hill just before they actually do it, then cocks his head, light dancing off his cheekbones. “I’ve got one.”

 

“Shoot.”

 

Enjolras relaxes back against the wainscoting, folds his hands over his stomach and closes his eyes as though he’s settling down for a siesta. Grantaire raises his eyebrows, then his jaw drops open with Enjolras’ command. “Seduce me.”

 

Grantaire exhales sharply. “What?”

 

“You heard.” Enjolras smirks his cocky, try-and-beat-that smirk, and Grantaire instantly regrets turning this into some sort of a competition because now he’s lost, he knows he’s lost, and he knows that he was never going to win with Enjolras in the game. This is the break point, and win or lose, right or wrong, sober or rip-roaringly deckchaired, Grantaire knows that he and Enjolras are about to go tumbling off a knife edge, one side or the other.

 

“Okay,” Grantaire murmurs in consent, and before Enjolras can pause for breath or even open his eyes, he advances on him, pushing the green bottle between them away, sending it rolling across the floor and settling himself atop Enjolras’ outstretched thighs. His bare skin is hot beneath Grantaire’s hands, and his eyes snap open. Grantaire stares down at Enjolras’ waist, his hips, his stomach, then looks slowly, carefully up at his face from beneath his dark eyelashes. “Shouldn’t be too difficult.”

 

“Somebody’s confident in their abilities,” Enjolras says, but his voice is huskier now, his eyes flicking between Grantaire’s own and his mouth. Grantaire watches as his tongue sweeps along his bottom lip, but keeps his eyes fixed pointedly, decidedly on Enjolras’.

 

“I think I’m allowed to be, Enjolras,” Grantaire murmurs, his voice lowering more and more with every syllable, scooting forward so that he’s now straddling Enjolras’ hips. Those jutting hipbones are pressing into Grantaire’s skin, and he steadies himself in such a way that only his thighs are in contact with Enjolras’ almost-nakedness. The blonde is half-hard already – impossible to disguise in his current get-up – and this spurs Grantaire on. “Last time proved that I can seduce you fairly easily.”

 

“Oh, did it?” Enjolras asks, moving a hand to press it against Grantaire’s neck, but Grantaire dodges it teasingly, resting his fingertips at the small of Enjolras’ back, a ghost of a touch but a touch nonetheless.

 

Grantaire nods slowly. “Yes. Mmm...” He leans in as he moans so that the sound hums across Enjolras’ ear; he feels Enjolras shudder beneath him and _fuck_ , it feels so good to be in charge of him for once, controlling, possessing him. “Remember that time in the alley outside the Musain?” He leans back again, capturing Enjolras’ gaze, staring down into his eyes from above and inching forward yet again so that now he is literally sitting in Enjolras’ lap with his feet on either side of his back, still pressed against the wall. “Remember how you took my hand and pulled me outside and shoved me up against the wall?” Grantaire grinds his hips down against Enjolras’, seeking friction, movement, _anything_ , and Enjolras’ hands move around his still-clothed waist, lips parted, eyes fixed on Grantaire’s with that dedication, that fervour that only he can manage.

 

“I remember,” he says with a nod, and he bites his lip.

 

“Do you remember how I pulled your hair?” Grantaire goes on, hands snaking up to Enjolras’ golden locks, tangling them around his fingers and tugging just a little bit too hard to be considered gentle. “Remember how I pulled on your curls and had to bite my fist so I wouldn’t scream your name when you fucked me with your mouth?” He dips his head tauntingly and noses at Enjolras earlobe, the line of his jaw, and when he feels Enjolras’ breathing increase in tempo he can’t help but smile impishly. “Remember when Courf caught us in the bathroom?”

 

“Your fault,” Enjolras tries, but his voice is gravelly and his cheeks are now so flush that they make his hair look silver in contrast.

 

Grantaire presses a kiss to the corner of Enjolras mouth and Enjolras’ lips part even more under his administrations. “I think it was your fault,” Grantaire retorts, kissing Enjolras chin, his jaw, nuzzling at his neck. “If you hadn’t fucked me up against that cubicle door until I was _screaming_...” He nipped at Enjolras’ pulse point just as he felt the blonde’s breath hitch in his throat, just beneath the surface of his skin. “... No one would have ever known what we were up to in there.”

 

“Fucking hell, Grantaire,” Enjolras bites out, and for once Grantaire feels like a victory might be in the making. Enjolras’ hands pull him closer by his waist, and now their torsos are flush against each other.

 

“I think you actually said that at the time,” Grantaire goes on, his voice a whisper now as he trails kisses and bites down Enjolras’ neck, his shoulders, the top of his chest, ensuring that every now and then he’s rough enough to leave a mark. “You looked so hot like that, holding me against the wall, fucking me, filling me up and fucking _owning me_ , and your _hands_ , I just...”

 

“Oh, Grantaire, consider me well and truly seduced,” says Enjolras, then before Grantaire knows where he is or what’s going on he’s being kissed, deep and slow and sultry; Enjolras’ tongue meets his own in a fervent dance and their bodies seem to mould together into one.

 

They kiss until they’re both gasping for air, at which point Enjolras rolls them over, switching their positions so that Grantaire is lying back against the bed frame and Enjolras is straddling his hips, and within seconds buttons are undone and Grantaire’s own shirt is being thrown across the room to join the heap of Enjolras’ clothing. He’s glad he removed his shoes earlier – his jeans come off easily after that, then he leans up, craving, _needing_ physical contact, so that their bare chests are touching, and Grantaire captures Enjolras’ mouth with his own once more, this time in a kiss that’s dirty and rough and fucking _incredible_ , fast yet slow at the same time, lips slipping at times and finding necks and jaws and shoulders instead but always meeting again eventually. They’re both hard now, completely turned on by Grantaire’s little speech – Grantaire admits even _he_ thought it was hot to talk dirty to perfect Enjolras – and moments later they're pawing at each other, clawing at the waistbands of underwear and palming each other’s cocks with a desperate, heated, raw _need_.

 

“Fuck, Grantaire, I want you,” Enjolras moans against his lips, climbing first to his knees then his feet and pulling Grantaire with him, never breaking the kiss. “Bed. Now.”

 

“Tell me exactly what you want,” Grantaire says, brushing his lips against Enjolras ear before gently lowering himself backwards onto the bed, soft and warm after being on the floor for so long. He reaches out a hand and Enjolras moves toward it, allowing Grantaire to wrap his arm around his neck and pull him down. Enjolras fists a hand in Grantaire’s tangle of dark curls and drags him in for another heart-melting kiss, and _seriously_ , Grantaire thinks he might explode soon. After very little coaxing Enjolras’ hands deftly move to the waistband of Grantaire’s underwear and remove it completely, then vice-versa – their naked bodies heave against each other, undulating and slick with perspiration as Enjolras hitches Grantaire’s leg up around his waist. Their cocks grind together, sticky and slippery with pre-cum already, but Grantaire isn’t ready yet, _no way_ , this can’t end now.

 

“Come on, Enjolras, please...” Grantaire hears the words drip from his lips despite not being able to consciously remember deciding to say them, but by now he doesn’t care. He feels a strong hand move across his back, inching achingly slowly downward until it reaches his ass, then Enjolras slips a finger in. Grantaire groans, muscles inside him contracting rapidly and deliciously as Enjolras’ finger moves inside him, and he bites down on Enjolras’ shoulder to contain the sound he’s dying to make. “More,” he forces out, and Enjolras is only too happy to oblige.

 

“Do you like that, R?” Enjolras murmurs, the pet name rough and coarse in Grantaire’s ear, and Grantaire squirms as he feels a second finger press against the tight ring of muscle.

 

“Yes, fucking hell, yes, Enjolras,” he moans. “Faster.”

 

He hears Enjolras spit into his hand before he inserts a third finger, and Grantaire has to consciously try to regulate his breathing to stop himself from blacking out. “Fuck,” he murmurs, and Enjolras swallows it down with a kiss so deep and so sexy it leaves Grantaire’s head swimming. “I want you right now, Enjolras, or so help me..”

 

“You’re so hot when you beg for it,” Enjolras whispers with a chuckle, withdrawing all three fingers and leaning back down to kiss Grantaire’s neck from behind, then his shoulders, his back, dropping a trail down his spine. Grantaire’s whole body is on fire and if anything Enjolras is the oxygen fuelling it. But if this is what it feels like to burn to death, Grantaire’s completely, one-hundred-percent okay with that.

 

Grantaire is forced to grab onto the bed sheets when he feels Enjolras slowly push inside him, one arm around his waist, the other by the side of Grantaire’s and clutching onto his hand. He starts off slow, gentle, and Grantaire feels the familiar slow climbing pressure in his lower abdomen, the growing pool of liquid warmth in his stomach that he’s only ever really achieved with Enjolras’ involvement. “Faster...” he chokes out among a string of expletives and nonsensical gibberish, and after a moment Enjolras speeds up, his thrusts matching the rate at which Grantaire’s heart is thundering in his chest. Every time their hips align Grantaire sees stars behind his closed eyelids and his fingers squeeze more tightly around Enjolras’, already fisted in the bed sheets.

 

“Fuck, Grantaire,” Enjolras cries out, then seconds later his eyes roll back in his head and he collapses on top of Grantaire, who moans at the sudden change in angle. When Enjolras has recovered his breathing, he rolls onto his side, takes Grantaire’s cock in hand and finishes him off in moments, kissing him at the second of his climax and Grantaire’s limbs have gone completely to jelly. He comes in thick ropes across the bed sheets and falls onto his side, sated, exhausted. Enjolras, still breathing hard and raggedly and almost sounding as if he’s sobbing, collapses against Grantaire’s chest, ear against his heart, arm around his waist, and they like that, tangled together, for what could be minutes, or hours, or days for all they care.

 

When Grantaire reopens his eyes, Enjolras is draped around him like a victory flag.

**Author's Note:**

> hey, leave me a review? I will give you cookies/sexual favours in return


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